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The morning sun hits my face on the floor I’m waking up on. Above me, the person I’m sharing a room with. Her fan is humming, and whirling left to right repetitively; helping keep her cool in the sticky heat. She has sunglasses on. She’s also wearing her best shoes; lilac high heels which stick up just in view. My host brings us breakfast, placing one on a table near Mama Kiki. He wishes her a good morning and tells her about the day ahead. Mama Kiki lays still, listening with no reply or expression. Mama Kiki died last spring. She is Tomakula. 12 hours earlier The clouds stream across the sky and roll off the hills as the sun pushes up from behind the mountains. I have arrived in the unique town of Tana Toraja in South Sulawesi. My guide, Ryan, meets me to show me around and teach me about their unique culture and lifestyle. Here, death doesn’t mean the end. When a person dies, they are preserved and continue to live with the family- this is called Tomakula. After touring the town, the sky is a purplish hue straining in the last light. Ryan takes me to see his mentor, Papa Kiki, whose wife and he were like second parents to him. He introduces us; offering cigarettes to help break the ice. I’m not a regular smoker, but…well, I’m British and don't want to be rude. In the corner is a mattress on the floor with two girls curled up together like cats: his daughters. A framed photo of a woman hangs above them, Mama Kiki. Papa Kiki gestures that she is in the next room, and Ryan tells me he wants me to meet her. I’m nervous and not sure how I’ll react. There’s a small coffin in the middle of the room, with a fan stuck to the wall above, rotating noisily in the otherwise silent room. I inhale deeply through my nose, but there is no smell. The lid is off, and I can see some bright coloured shoes on her feet, a full flowing dress, her hair and fingernails still intact. Her eyes are nearly shut, and you can see there is nothing behind the lids. Her lips smeared with lipstick. Papa Kiki mumbles some words I don’t understand, and smiles and nods his head at me. Ryan tells me I’m welcome; she is happy you have come to meet her family. Papa Kiki continues the conversation with her, smiling and nodding every now and again. A daughter pushes through the door dividers, rubbing her sleepy eyes. She says something, grabbing some bright yellow sunglasses off the floor. “She must have dropped them”, Ryan translates, and she walks to Mama Kiki, softly placing them over her eyes and gently whispering to her whilst running her fingers through her hair. She readjusts the bright purple shoe on the left foot, which looks like the bones have been shrink wrapped in a papyrus like paper. As she walks back to fall onto the mattress and curl up around her sister, Ryan tells me she uttered that Mama Kiki can’t sleep without her favourite glasses on. Papa Kiki tells me of Mama Kiki’s life. He knows she is dead. Yet I sense a conflict in him that believes otherwise. She got him into music; she is the reason he plays the flute and he tells me that when the kids are asleep, he sits on the balcony and plays so he and Mama Kiki can be together again. Just the two of them with the stars in the sky. As it's late, Papa Kiki invites us to stay. We will be in Mama Kiki's room. She insists. He will stay on the mattress with his daughters. He hands a thin mat and small pillow to me and I gratefully accept, laying myself out on the floor, Mama Kiki’s coffin above me like a bunk-bed. My brain whirls. I gently breathe long and deep, unraveling the day’s events. Eventually, I feel sleep starting to tingle all over my body. As I hover between consciousness, I hear the sound of a flute playing from outside on the balcony.